


A Little Help

by Miri1984



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Hair Braiding, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-10
Updated: 2020-02-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:00:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22643743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miri1984/pseuds/Miri1984
Summary: "I hope you hair curls naturally, does it?Yes, darling, with a little help from others.”- Oscar Wilde, "The Importance of Being Earnest"PLEASE CHECK OUT AREYOUOKAYPANDA's BEAUTIFUL ART FOR THIS: https://areyouokaypanda.tumblr.com/post/190765080135/hey-go-read-a-little-help-for-big-soft
Relationships: Zolf Smith/Oscar Wilde
Comments: 26
Kudos: 229





	A Little Help

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Tangled in a Silver Braid](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22038730) by [LotusFlair](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LotusFlair/pseuds/LotusFlair). 



Zolf never asked the details of why Wilde’s hair was so short. He knew that the man didn’t use prestidigitation like it was going out of style any more, that some mornings in the inn he would come upon Wilde going about his morning ablutions with deep dark circles under his eyes, stubble on his chin and hair mussed from sleep - looking for all the world like an actual human being rather than some posh dandy fixing to sit for his portrait.

It was weird, but just one more weird thing to add to the growing list of weird things in this fucked up world, and he got used to it.

Got used to living with the man, with his moods and his unexpected kindnesses and his stubborn refusal to take care of himself and his long fingered, delicate hands.

Over the months they worked together Wilde’s hair continued to grow out, until it was as long as Zolf remembered, longer, even. Now when Wilde moved about in the mornings auburn locks fell over his eye, hung over his scar, hid the bright blue of his eyes. Wilde would look up at Zolf through a curtain of hair and Zolf would have to guess at the expression, trying to reconcile the face he could see now with the face he was starting to forget, from London, from Paris, the face of a man he despised and not the face of a... 

...trusted companion.

#

He brought tea up to Wilde, most days, usually food as well since the man barely left the reading room. It was a few months after they’d finally settled in at the inn, made a routine, found some semblance of stability, and Wilde’s hair was touching his shoulders, now. Zolf figured he’d curled it, or used magic to curl it, back in the Rangers days, but these days it fell in soft, gentle waves, casting shadows on his expressions, slightly frizzy from the constant humidity.

Wilde looked up and gave him a crooked smile as he entered, then blew out of the corner of his cheek at an errant strand, frowning a little as he took the cup from Zolf’s fingers.

“You could tie it back, you know,” Zolf said, and Wilde raised an eyebrow. Zolf swallowed. “Your hair, I mean. If it’s getting in your way. Or I could probably cut it for you.”

Wilde reached up a hand to tuck the stray lock of hair behind him. “Mmmm. I don’t have a tie,” he said. 

Zolf fished in his pocket, searching around the various detritus he always seemed to pick up simply by walking around, until he found what he was looking for - a strip of leather, something that had frayed off a cushion or his armor, long enough and flexible enough for his purpose. He handed it over to Wilde, who took it, that eyebrow still raised, a slight smile playing over his lips.

“Thank you,” he said, then gathered his hair back, tying it in a loose ponytail with deft movements that told Zolf that he had definitely worn his hair like this in the past.

Not that Zolf had ever seen him like that. It was… different. Without the shade and concealment of his hair, Wilde’s cheekbones stood out, stark and clear cut, and Zolf could see the shadow of the hollow of his neck and the sweep of his jaw, sharp without the line of hair to soften it, his scar dark and jagged over pale skin, touching the corner of his full lips.

He looked both younger and older, with the hair pulled away, like a layer of artifice - another of how many Zolf couldn’t guess - stripped away.

Wilde finished the bow on the tie with a precise movement, then gave him a brief grin before focusing back down on his work. “Thank you,” he said. “That is much better.”

“Y’welcome,” Zolf said, a little roughly. He glanced back at Wilde as he left the room to see him idly tracing the line of his scar as he read, completely absorbed.

He’d have to bring up some food later. 

#

He got used to it, the new look. Liked it, actually, liked that he could read Wilde’s expressions, liked that it was easier to know what the man was thinking. He chalked it up to being able to see his face properly, not thinking at all that perhaps he might be trying a little harder to predict Oscar’s moods, understand Oscar’s reasonings, know Oscar’s preferences.

Oscar’s small kindnesses felt kinder, somehow, these days. The twisted smile felt more personal when it was directed his way. 

Amazing, really, what a different hairstyle could do for you.

#

Wilde didn’t go out in the field often. Illusion magic wasn’t desperately useful in close combat, but it did help for things like distractions when Carter was on a job, and he had enough rudimentary healing skills to help on missions when Zolf was busy chasing down leads on a certain leviathan automaton. 

Carter didn’t tell him that Wilde had gotten himself injured. Perhaps he would have, if Zolf had asked, but Zolf made a point of not engaging in conversation with Carter if he could at all manage it, so when he got home one evening in the pouring rain after another failed attempt at locating the leviathan’s lair and took a cup of tea up to the reading room, he wasn’t aware why Wilde would be cursing as he struggled with his hair and a tie, one arm not raising high enough to get the angle he needed to finish the knot that would contain the mess of waves and curls. He did recognise the hiss in Wilde’s voice as pain though, so he set down the teacup and moved to his side.

“What’ve you done to yourself?”

Wilde looked up, a hair tie between his teeth, curls falling over one eye. He started to talk, then realised something was already in his mouth and spat it into his hand. “Carter shot me,” he said. 

“What?”

“It was an accident. He only saw the illusion - thought I was a threat,” Wilde shrugged, then winced. “He is, however, as we all know, a _dreadful_ shot, which was, in this case, lucky for me.”

“Did you heal it?”

Wilde pouted. “Yes. It’s fine, just… muscles are a bit tender. You know how it is for a couple of days.”

Zolf raised an eyebrow, and Wilde cursed again, trying to reach around to gather his hair up.

“Gods, you idiot, stop trying to use it like that if it hurts. Here.” He took the tie from where it had fallen on the table and moved behind Wilde, gently pushing the injured arm downwards, resisting the urge to murmur a small healing spell of his own. Wilde got a little bit sensitive when it came to Zolf criticising his healing magic, and he didn’t want the argument right now.

“What are you doing?”

“If you can’t tie your hair back yourself I can help,” he said, reaching around to gather the strands of Oscar’s hair together. Oscar went completely still. 

It was even longer now than it had been when Wilde first started to tie it back, and softer than Zolf had expected. Without thinking, he carded both his hands through it, like he would have done with his own beard before beginning a braid.

Oscar made a small noise, almost like a whine, in the back of his throat.

“What?” Zolf said, teasing out a couple of strands that had knotted together, glancing at the desk to see if he could find a comb. 

He heard Oscar’s breath leave him in a shaky exhale. “Gods… please…” he murmured. Zolf’s hands stopped their movements and Oscar whined again.

Zolf had never heard him make sounds like that before. Interesting. “Oscar what…?”

Oscar shook his head, a little violently. “Nothing. It’s nothing. Thank you, I’d… I’d really appreciate it if you could… help me. With my hair.”

Zolf shrugged and tutted, reaching out to the comb that was, in fact, on the desk, just off to the side, next some papers and the cup of tea Zolf had brought. He moved his fingers up into Oscar’s hair at the base of his skull, searching out where the worst of the knots were, then started to gently comb them out. 

Oscar tipped his head back to give him better access and Zolf heard him let out a sigh. 

“I could braid it, if you want,” Zolf offered. “If I can do it tight enough it’ll last a couple of days, enough time that you won’t have to worry about your arm the next time you need to put it up.”

“Mmmm,” Oscar said, although it didn’t sound like an affirmation, more like a hum of contentment. 

“Is that a yes?”

“What?”

Zolf tugged on one of the strands in his hand and he heard Oscar _yelp._

_Ah._

“Do you want me to braid it?”

“Will that take longer than just tying it back?”

“Of course it’ll take longer…”

“Then yes please braid it.”

Zolf titled his head, then set the comb down and swiveled Oscar’s chair around so they were face to face. 

Oscar’s cheeks were flushed pink and he avoided looking Zolf in the eyes.

“You like it when people touch your hair,” Zolf said, smiling.

Oscar blew air out his cheeks, then looked up at Zolf from under stupidly long lashes, eyes glinting. “I… ah… Yes. No one’s done it for me in quite some time, though.” He licked his lips. “I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable.” Zolf reached out and tucked a strand of hair away, behind Oscar’s ear. He could _see_ Oscar’s eyes start to flutter shut at the contact, his lips curving up in a smile.

“No need to be sorry about it,” Zolf said, a little gruffly, and he moved back to behind Oscar, picking up the comb and continuing the work of smoothing out Oscar’s hair. “It’s something we do for each other. Something we did. Back home.”

“Your family?”

“Mmmhmm,” Zolf finished with the comb and separated Oscar’s hair out into sections for a simple braid. It was different, doing this for hair on someone else’s head rather than on his own face, but it only took him a few moments to remember the rhythm of it, the in and out of one lock going under another, soft against the skin of his fingers. He worked in silence, accompanied only by Oscar’s occasional pleased hum. 

When he was done he tied off the braid and ran his fingers gently down the back of Oscar’s neck, almost without thinking, feeling Oscar shiver under the touch, and rested his hand on Oscar’s shoulder. “There,” he said. “All done.”

He saw Oscar’s throat move in a swallow, then he turned to look up at Zolf. The braid was more severe than the ponytail had been. Oscar’s face looked harsh and clean cut. Determined. 

But there was a softness in his expression, a warmth that was centred entirely on Zolf, and Zolf felt it wash over him with the inevitability of waves on a shore. 

“Thank you,” Oscar said. 

Zolf let out a breath. “Yeah,” he said, but didn’t move to leave, and Oscar didn’t ask him to, the tea and the papers on the desk forgotten, the soft drum of the rain on the roof of the inn the only sounds aside from their breath.

  
  
  



End file.
